


The Gods of His Mother

by EysabellePerfume



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-07 23:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EysabellePerfume/pseuds/EysabellePerfume
Summary: Erik awakens (from death?) in august company. Step aside, Bast. The Orishas have arrived to claim their own.





	The Gods of His Mother

He awoke as a candle does when lit. The flame of his consciousness stretched up, then shrank down, then reached a point of equilibrium. He opened his eyes to watery light that turned to flame, then alpenglow, then lightning. His eyes were dazzled as a newborn's. As a newborn, he was nude. The sand beneath him turned to snow. The snow beneath him turned to lush greenery, and then to the hard-packed earth of a road.

He lay in the center of a crossroads.

He sat up, and was a child. He sat up, and was a man. His stomach was whole. His stomach gaped with a wound. He flickered like a candle flame. He was everything. He was nothing.

A young, dark-skinned man dressed in red and black crouched nearby, deftly juggling three cowrie shells and watching Erik with the hint of a smile. _Cowrie shells_. How did he know what they were? But he knew what they were. And he felt he knew the young man, as well.

"Am I dead?" he asked.

"Mmm," the young man said. "You could be. You could not be. Do you taste the salt on your lips? Do you feel Yemonja's kiss on your forehead?"

"Yemonja. I know that name. My mother ..." His mother. His barely-remembered, long-dead mother. _I once had a mother. And she once prayed to other gods._

A dime at a crossroads. A cigar. A splash of rum. _Baba Eleggua, open my way_.

"You remember," said Eleggua.

"Are you real?" asked Erik.

"Are you?" asked Eleggua.

"I have nothing to offer you. Will I be at these crossroads forever?"

"I accept back payment," the Orisha said, with a wry smile. "But beware my collections agency."

Erik's voice was the voice of a child. "Baba Eleggua, open my way."

A streak of lightning, a rush of hot wind, and Erik knelt at the gates of the Oakland cemetery where his mother was buried. A tall, proud woman dressed in a whirlwind of colors stood at the gates, stirring the air with a horsehair fly whisk. Erik felt an instant attraction to her, and to the impulsive power she embodied.

"Oya Yansa," he said, remembering her name. "The Mother of Nine. Do I belong to you now?"

She gave a short, skeptical laugh. "We are not that obvious, child. We are never that obvious."

"But I'm dead. Aren't I dead? I thought I was dead."

"Do you taste the salt on your lips? Do you feel Yemonja's kiss on your forehead?"

Now he remembered. _Bury me in the ocean with my ancestors who jumped from ships, 'cause they knew death was better than bondage_.

"The dead are not dead," said Oya Yansa. "And you are not dead. I do not own your head, child. Begone with you!"

She flicked the fly whisk at him. He was the whirlwind. He spun from the cemetery. Dandelion seed. Grain of sand. Flake of snow. He was consumed by a cloud. He became the cloud. The cloud set him to rest on a high peak, high above the snow line. The world below was an ocean of clouds.

Erik grew cold with dread. "Ah, no," he said. He felt the presence before he saw it. An old man, dark skin contrasting with white hair, white beard, white clothing. "It can't be you, old man. Not you. Ogun, Shango, Ochossi ... anybody but _you_." Now he was shouting, his childish fists clenched in rage. " _It can't be you!_ "

" _Ago_ ," said Obatala. " _Ago_ , Erik. _Ago_."

And he remembered his mother, long ago. When he threw a tantrum, when his childish rage overcame him, she would say to him, " _Ago_ , Erik. _Ago_. Be cool."

"You think you've got any business telling _me_ to be cool? Telling _me_? You know what I've seen? You know what I've had to do? You, a weak old man sitting up in the clouds keeping his clothes lily white?"

White light dazzled Erik's eyes, momentarily blinding them. When he blinked and squinted, the old man was gone. In his place was a young warrior dressed in white, with a red sash, holding a sword that blazed with its own intrinsic light.

"Do not underestimate the power of peace. Do not underestimate the power of compassion. Do not underestimate the power of justice. I own your head, Erik. You are mine. Be cool, and grow in power."

Obatala plunged the sword into Erik's heart. The pain lasted a second. The pain lasted a century. The pain tore him to pieces. The pain put him back together. And then there was nothing.

* * *

He awoke as a candle does when lit. The flame of his consciousness stretched up, then shrank down, then reached a point of equilibrium. He opened his eyes to watery light. His eyes were dazzled as a newborn's. As a newborn, he was nude. The sand beneath him was wet and cold. He sat up, shivering, and wrapped his arms around his chest. His chest was strong and smooth and washed free of scars.


End file.
